


opsequor

by orphan_account



Category: Naruto
Genre: Fingering, M/M, PWP, modern verse probably, obidei
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-24 16:21:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2588006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>it’s just an excuse to feel you up, against which you don’t really have any complaints. it’s better than watching movies alone in your shithole of an apartment, anyways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	opsequor

You’re sure he’s figured it out by now.

You hate horror movies, so, naturally, he goes out of his way to make sure you watch them with him. As often as he can. Of course, it’s just an excuse to feel you up, for which you don’t really have any complaints. It’s better than watching movies alone in your shithole of an apartment, anyways.

It’s not like you mind. Finally being able to shed the title of ‘virgin’ had been liberating, to say the least, and jumping right into a maelstrom of sexual activity was practically the best thing you could have asked for.

The weight of his hand on your thigh is better than the movie as it is.

“Watch it,” he rumbles from above you, and you half-cackle into the pillow under your face, cheek comfortably pressed into the fabric.

“I don’t want to. It’s boring.” Draped facefirst over his lap, you have a better view of his masked face than you do of the screen. It’s not really boring, but this way, you don’t have to watch the senseless sprays of blood and monster chases currently echoing their racket through your tinny television speakers. Idly, you reach up, fingers brushing against the edge of the mask as if to tug it off. He bats your hand away with an irritated noise, jerking his leg to jostle your position.

“Is it too scary for you?” his voice comes across as mocking, and you scowl, brows crashing together. In response, you pinch his side, preferring that to an actual answer to the question.

“No,” you protest, still pointedly not looking at the screen.

“Watch it,” he says again, tapping fingers against the back of your knee. With a huff, you comply, knowing it’s better that than to endure the stream of teasing that would undoubtedly follow otherwise. You fold your arms underneath your head, cheek resting on your forearms for support. Eyes following the movements of the terrified characters on the screen, you sigh pointedly, wordlessly voicing your disapproval of this particular gorefest.

He makes no response, but instead presses fingers into the back of your thigh once more, palm pressing flat against the rough fabric of your jeans. That piques your interest—curious, you swivel your head ever so slightly, his arm barely visible in the corner of your gaze. You can almost sense his smugness, like he knows he’s captured your attention—slowly, gloved hand warm even through your clothes, he drags his hand higher, eliciting a warm shiver in its wake.

“Having fun, yeah?” you query, mouth quirking in a sardonic grin. He clicks his tongue and grabs your thigh, fingertips squeezing tight.

“Watch the movie.” Is his only reply, and you roll your eyes, allowing your gaze to drift back to the tv. For a moment, his hand’s still against your leg, and you almost forget about it until he moves again, hand shifting to outright squeeze your ass, and you jump infinitesimally, a faint noise of surprise following. Still, he says nothing, so you huff out a breath, eyes returning to the glowing screen.

As the volume increases with the intensity of the movie, his hand shifts, pushing under your shirt and rubbing fingers over your hip. He’s toying with you, quietly smug as if it’s not even happening. Fine. Despite the interest gathering hot behind your navel, already half-hard against your thigh, you can play along.

“How do you like the movie?” he asks, breaking the illusion for a moment. His fingers slip under the hem of your pants, teasing and light, the fabric of his glove raising goosebumps underneath it. You grit your teeth in a grin, head turning to barely catch his eye.

“It sucks.” You shoot back, keeping your voice pointedly sardonic, betraying nothing.

“Unfortunate.” He replies with a shrug, and then he’s popping open the button on your jeans, hand deft under you as he tugs down the zipper. You grunt, hiding the telltale catch in your breath, and stare at the screen again, barely seeing the action in the movie.

His hand doesn’t go where you expect it to—instead of fingers curling around your cock, like you’d thought, he shifts his hand to the small of your back, palm smoothing under your loosened jeans and boxers, fingers creeping along the curve of your ass again.

“Uh,” you make the noise before you can stop yourself, teeth briefly digging into your lip. If he’s doing what you think he’s doing—you’re not a bottom, you’ve established that, but… you’re hard already, pressing through your jeans and against his leg, and you’re not adverse to experimenting. “There’s—“ you begin, pausing to swallow. “—lube. Yeah. Under the cushion.” It’s not the first time you’ve fooled around on this couch. It sees more action than your actual bed, to be honest. You might need to get it cleaned.

He laughs low, muffled against the inside of his mask, and you hear fabric shifting and then a soft thunk, the clicking of the bottle cap audible even over the raucousness of the movie. You hover somewhere between paying attention to the movie and being hyperaware of his movements, the pounding of your heart loud in your ears. There’s a scream on the television—the shifting sensation of a glove being pulled off—a spray of guts—and then you hiss as slick fingers slide along your skin, cool and wet. A fingertip rubs against you, teasing and pointed, before he’s slowly easing the tip of his middle finger into you.

And fuck that feels weird— not painful, not pleasurable, but enough to have you exhale hard and tense against the sensation. He’s still, then, not moving the digit in or out or anything, and you push your hips back infinitesimally in a wordless gesture of frustration. That seems to spur him on, and he wiggles the digit in further, against undoubted heat and tight resistance.

You hadn’t realized, but your breath is coming fast, eyes flickering between the screen and what you can see of him out of the corner of your eye. He’s not saying anything—not a word, not a laugh as he edges his finger in to the last knuckle, eliciting a muffled groan from the back of your throat.

He’s—you don’t know what he’s doing, he’s moving it around inside of you, crooking it towards your stomach, and oh shit—you jump with a curse as he presses against some sensitive spot, hips automatically shifting down against his leg.

“Have you ever done this to yourself before?” he murmurs, breath tickling the back of your neck, and you realize that he’s taken the mask off. You huff out a breathy laugh, swallowing hard against the tingles of pleasure that wind their way up your spine. It’s still uncomfortable, but there’s an aching sweetness following the movements that has your eyes falling halfway shut.

“Yeah.” You admit after a moment, quiet and breathless against the pillow. You arch your back with a gasp as he repeats the motion, firm inside you, his finger pulling back before pushing back in, an unsatisfying imitation of a thrust.

He says nothing, instead circling a second digit around where the first presses in, and you grit your teeth in anticipation, breath leaking from your lungs in a wheezing moan as he edges it in alongside the other finger. It’s only two but you feel full from it, cock aching in the confines of your jeans. You wiggle your hips back against him, pointed, and you can practically sense him grin in response. He starts thrusting easily, slowly, his fingers sliding slick inside you, muscles tight against the invading digits. You’re panting without knowing it, eyes almost shut as his fingers press deeper, harder, perfect where they crook against the one spot inside you that makes you feel like you’re going to melt.

It’s almost too much—the slow burn in your gut, lips parted to allow your harsh breaths against the steady thrusts of his strong fingers, and you shift awkwardly to reach down and touch yourself. Your palm barely brushes your cock before he grabs your wrist suddenly, tugging it away from your body, pinning it above your head along with a handful of hair.

“Fuck,” you groan raggedly against the pillow, spine arching as he fucks you with his fingers, relentless and wet, enough to have you rocking back against his touch. He speeds his thrusts, works his wrist hard enough to have you grind your hips down against the solidity of his thigh, biting back a moan against the onslaught of pleasure. You’d move your head to watch his hand, perverse as you are, but his grip is iron where it pins you down to the pillow. Even the friction from where your cock rubs against fabric is enough to have you close, just from this, just from two fingers, each thrust pushing a low gasp out of you.

You spread your thighs as best as you can with your jeans still restricting your movements, panting as you rock down against him even as his fingers thrust fucking deep, hard, and you’re a goddamn wreck under him, mouth open and movie completely forgotten in the background.

You’re not bothering to muffle your moans anymore, close as you are, shockwaves of pleasure rolling like an inexorable tide, building hotter and hotter with each thrust of his fingers and movement of your hips down against him. You’re gone, legs open as you just take it, eyes squeezed shut and then he’s leaning down to bite the crook of your neck, possessive and hard and you cry out, spine arching sharp, helpless under his ministrations and mouth and fingers and fuck that’s it, a shout of his name as you come hard inside your jeans, entire body tensing as your hips roll down against him.

There’s a buzzing in your ears as you ride it out, breaths unsteady as you slump against him and the cushions, wincing ever so slightly as he pulls his fingers out of you. There’s a moment of silence, save for your panting, before he kisses the no-doubt reddening mark on your neck, slow and satisfied.

He runs fingers through your hair, almost fond, and you somehow garner the energy to lift your head, eyes focusing and following the ending credits that now roll across the darkened screen.

Your head’s still spinning— even as he pulls his hands back and you lie limp over him, prostrate and entirely sated.


End file.
